


One Greying Mass, Silent Scream

by Anonymous



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Every Omega Trope in One, M/M, Mary Lou Barebone is Her Own Warning, Masturbation, Mildly Dubious Consent, Self-Lubrication, Sexual Content, Veela Credence, Veela Mates, Whooaaaa this is weird
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-12
Updated: 2017-07-27
Packaged: 2018-10-31 03:33:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10890828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Credence had been locked away for as long as he could remember. Ma was mad at him for something. Something in the way that people gave him extra bread on the streets, handed him shiny coins, patted his soft hair, curling at the end.“You’re a filthy boy. If you were ever to leave, men would smell your stink and destroy you. I’m doing you a service, boy.”She said that, over and over, chopping off his long, soft hair, starving him until his milky skin cracked, teaching him to never look into a man’s eyes, sinful boy.People stopped staring, stopped cooing. Avoided him altogether.It was for his own good. It was. Credence was wicked in ways he didn’t understand.But he couldn’t be locked away forever.Credence is a Veela, as well as an Obscurial. It's wild for everyone.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> what am i doing
> 
> this has every a/b/o trope ever but!! veela? yeah. tw for sexual harrassment of a minor, icky Grindlewald and Mary Lou, just
> 
> bad stuff yall

Credence had been locked away for as long as he could remember. Ma was mad at him for  _ something.  _ Something in the way that people gave him extra bread on the streets, handed him shiny coins, patted his soft hair, curling at the end.

“You’re a filthy boy. If you were ever to leave, men would smell your stink and  _ destroy  _ you. I’m doing you a service, boy.”

She said that, over and over, chopping off his long, soft hair, starving him until his milky skin cracked, teaching him to  _ never look into a man’s eyes, sinful boy. _

People stopped staring, stopped cooing. Avoided him altogether.

It was for his own good. It  _ was.  _ Credence was wicked in ways he didn’t understand.

But he couldn’t be locked away forever.

*

Credence had long since learned to hunch over when handing out pamphlets. It kept him from meeting anyone’s eyes, let him curl into his thin jacket, let him breathe against the swirling, hungry  _ thing  _ in his belly.

It was his second week handing them out that he realized what Ma meant.

Credence dutifully held out a pamphlet to a man with shiny shoes, much too rich to be in this part of town. Lost, maybe. Staring at his watch, the man stumbled right into Credence’s arm. 

“Watch it, you-!”

Credence looked up, frightened.

“You…”

Why was he  _ looking  _ at him? It must be his ugliness. His  _ sin.  _ He could smell it.

“S-sorry, sir. Um…” 

Credence offered him a paper, but the man wasn’t looking at his hands. He put his fingers under Credence’s chin, lifting his face to look at him.

“Oh, you  _ treasure.”  _ He said, looking dazed. Credence blinked. A drunkard? No, plain Credence Barebone was no  _ treasure.  _ “Come. Come, now.”

The man seemed to find his charm, swallowing hard and placing a gentle hand on his arm. “It’s cold out. Wouldn’t you like a warm drink?”

“I musn’t.” Credence ducked his chin. “Ma says…”

“Our little secret.” The man put a finger to his lips, and Credence felt some instinctual, lizard-brain  _ pride  _ flash through the dark beast inside him.  _ Go. Take. Be taken. _

Credence shook his head and ran. That night, he abstained from food and water, burning himself over and over as he washed dishes, praying for deliverance. 

*

Sometimes Credence sang little songs to Modesty. Lullabies he had never learned. Sometimes, street urchins and passerby would stand under the window and listen, staring up at them with glassy eyes.

Ma would come in with dark eyes, hand outstretched for the belt.

Credence learned to stop singing.

*

When Credence is sixteen, he meets a boy with quick, sticky fingers and blonde hair - far too bright for the tenement house that he, his mother, and his three siblings lived in. The boy is seventeen and named Abraham. A strong, sturdy, biblical name.

Abe likes to play the piano. 

There's a rickety one in the church. It’s by the entrance, where passersby can stop in to hide from the rain, make small donations, see the candles. 

One rainy day, Abe nudged him to the piano.

“Sing with me?” 

Some folks were milling about, uncomfortable in the squalor, staring out at the heavy rain. Credence flushed.

“I only know hymns…”  _ I’m not allowed. _

Abe frowned. His quick fingers made nice noises, harmonic in a way that made Credence’s ears prick and the creature inside him perk up, scratching at his throat. 

“You can make it up. I always do.”

Credence gave him a tiny, tiny smile. Abe flushed and beamed in response. 

“Just follow me, okay? We’ll start with what you know.”

Clear chords - familiar and true. A man called Thomas Edison had recorded a few hymns, and they played out the window of those rich enough to have gramophones.

Credence’s voice was very quiet, but clear - almost by rote, he let the word of the Lord tumble from out his lips.

A few men turned his way, continuing to mutter and complain. Abe frowned, shaking an empty tip jar. He cracked his knuckles and began to play.

Oh,  _ those  _ weren't for hymns. Not those roiling, tumultuous chords. Jazzy and  _ sinful.  _

“Abraham-”

“Just...follow me.” He leaned into the piano with a smile that made Credence dizzy. After a moment, Credence  _ did. _

Some love song, or something. Credence didn’t know the words, but the thing inside him did, taking over his lips and teeth, making him sing in a warbling jazz tenor, ringing salaciously against the high ceiling of the church.

Some people were humming along. Some were tapping their foot. From one song to the next, Abraham let the music continue, nodding at Credence and following  _ him.  _ Coins and bills clanged into the jar until Credence had to put his hat out as well. 

When Ma returned, she’d been furious. But they made twelve dollars, so she couldn’t be  _ that  _ mad.

*

People liked it when he sang. Even Ma would pause for a moment before reprimanding him. Best of all, the children liked it. He made stories into songs to help them memorize the holy words, so Ma wouldn’t beat them if they couldn’t recite. Sang them the days of the week, The months, the colors of the rainbow, anything he could offer.

He felt like a teacher, sometimes. Sometimes, he felt good.

*

“Wanna go to an audition with me?” Abe asked, plinking out a melody on the piano as Credence folded leaflets. Credence shook his head, busting himself in his work.

“C’mon, Cre. It’s a cattle call for 18, and we’re 17, now, and if you straightened yourself up…”

“You go, Abraham.”

“I’m not half as good as you.  _ C’mon,  _ Credence. We could be on Broadway. Wear fancy clothes an’ have nickles to give out like hot cakes!”

Credence smiled at him, shaking his head gently. He didn’t notice how Abraham leaned forward suddenly, lips parting and inhaling deeply. Why would he? He was just an ugly wretch.

“If they heard you sing…” He said, staring at him.

“Abraham?”

*

Credence got his first kiss when he was seventeen, over the church piano. He did sometimes wonder what happened to Abraham. Maybe he played piano for a jazz band. Maybe he played for Broadway. Maybe he died in the tenement house with his sick mama.

Credence wouldn’t know. All he’d know was it could never happen again. It felt too good to be pure. Mary Lou turned Abraham out a week later, after catching him stroking Credence’s cheek.

30 lashes for him, five days without supper. The cold New York night for Abe.

*

Credence was 18 when he started smelling different. Things smelled different.  _ Men  _ smelled different, deep and enticing. He started to starve even worse than when there were only dregs of soup once a day, curling around his aching stomach and rocking the pitch blackness inside that wailed for  _ touch. _

Sin, he was sure, and he leaned heavily into Mary Lou’s practices, hoping it could be starved out,  _ beaten  _ out. 

Smoked out. 

Sometimes, Credence could smell  _ smoke,  _ wafting in between his neglected vocal cords, pressing to the roof of his mouth. Sometimes he dreamed of flying, tumbling through the streets and soaring above the skyscrapers. 

Sometimes he awoke smelling of clouds and starlight, shoulders dusted in plaster. 

Prayer would help. Fasting, too. It  _ must. _

His stomach shrunk, his scent subsided. The storm between his legs slowed to a trickle and dried up. 

This is how it must be, he thought, even as something wept inside him. This is God’s will. 

It didn’t stop the dreams, though. Rather, increased their frequency. He flew so far and so high, he could barely find his way back.

*

Credence doesn’t know how old he is. He used to keep tallies in an old calendar book, but it was filled up and thrown into the furnace for kindling. At least he doesn’t  _ smell  _ anymore - a meal a day keeps the  _ men  _ away.

Except for one man.

“What’s this, now?”

A tall, broad shadow fell across Credence and Modesty. She stepped on Credence’s shoe and gave the man a toothy smile.

“Word of God, ‘fcourse. Are you looking for truth?”

“Maybe.” The man sounded faintly amused, a low rumble that made the thing in Credence’s belly perk up. He squashed it down, stiffly holding out a pamphlet.

“Witches? In New York?” 

“Yes sir. They’re everywhere.” Modesty said, as though she was telling a ghost story and waiting for him to be frightened. “Ma’s sermon says how to kill ‘em. Wanna come?”

“Not today, child - I’ve a meeting. Next week, perhaps?”

It took Credence a moment to realize he was addressing  _ him. _

“Date and time’s on the flier.” Credence said, hoarsely. 

“What’s that? You’re talking to the street, young man. That won’t do.”

Credence looked up into his handsome face, wishing he could open up like a sprout and bathe in his sunlight. Oh, he looked so  _ strong.  _ That strange thing inside him crawled up into his sternum, thudding it’s tail against his heart, making it hammer in his ears. 

“S-sunday and Friday. We’re here.” Credence whispered. 

The man nodded, shaking his hand. “Thank you, young man.”

Credence wondered what his name would sound like, from that mouth.

*

Credence used to soak the sheets with strange, slippery fluid at night. He would awake humiliated, opening the windows to air out the syrupy scent. 

It hadn’t happened in a long while, thanks to his careful routine, the lack of food, The rations of soup. 

Not until now.

Credence whimpered into his palm, empty stomach  _ hot,  _ feeling so light and yet so feverish. 

The seat of his pajama pants were sticking to him, drops of  _ slick  _ rolling down his spread thighs. 

Credence sobbed, and then he choked, and gave in. His long fingers stuttered at his waistband, shaking as they reached under, lower, to press at the slick stuff.

It felt nice against his fingers. Felt slippery and good to rub into his skin. He moaned, absentmindedly rutting into the sheets, head pleasantly foggy…

His finger slipped into to his sopping entrance without resistance. Credence flushed and squirmed, feeling ashamed and empty and - 

Another finger. Another - 

He mewled against the pillow, feeling warm and safe. Finally full. He swallowed against his disgust, overwhelmed with curiosity, self-hatred put aside if just for a moment. Why shouldn’t he explore? Wasn’t this  _ his  _ body?  _ His  _ vessel for the Lord’s work - ?

He crooked his fingers and nearly screamed. 

“Oh, oh! Uh…” 

If only the angle were  _ better,  _ if only he could touch and stroke in a better rhythm -

“Uh, uh - !”

If only his wrist wasn’t cramping, if only someone could press him down and sniff at his neck -

“Uh - Ah! Ah…”

If only Mister Graves were here, if only a big strong man were here to -

_ “Yes - !” _

Credence was 23 on the night of his first orgasm, a little dribble of semen down his belly, a gallon of slick from between his thighs. He washed the sheets by hand, and when that failed, burned them.

The scent of a young, virgin veela - even obscured in smoke - wafting up and over the city had men and women, magic and muggle alike sniffing the air, shifting in their sleep, had Percival Graves biting down the sudden urge to  _ claim,  _ had Newt squeezing the ship’s rails in worry.

*

Credence scrubbed his skin raw, pleasure long forgotten, disgust in its place. He considered acting out to get a beating - Lord knew he  _ deserved  _ one.

*

“Do you believe in witchcraft, Credence?”

Mister Graves was a source of solace and pain. His lizard-brain wailed at him to preen and cuddle, but all Credence could do was fiddle with his too-short sleeve and pat his awful haircut. 

“D-doesn’t matter what I believe.” 

“I disagree. Is that not the basis of faith?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Tell me.”

Credence glanced down the street. Credence expected someone to yell at them for crowding the sidewalk, but folks walked by the two of them like they weren’t even there. 

“I believe in s-sin, sir.”

“Sin? What does a pious young man like you know of  _ sin?”  _ Graves’ voice was sweet and honeyed. Credence twisted away from it, sure he would be stuck, even though he’d be happy to eat his fill.

“Please, sir. Don’t ask that.” 

His voice quivered, and he stared at Graves’ polished shoes.

“Credence…” Graves sighed. “Sweet boy. Do you believe in magic?”

“Do you believe in Hell?” Credence hissed, then winced, preparing for blows.

Graves hummed, considering.

“No. I don’t believe in Hell nor Heaven. But I believe in magic. I  _ know  _ it exists.”

He stepped closer, tilting Credence’s chin up. Credence soaked up the brief contact, eyes fluttering shut.

“Credence?”

“Sir…”

“I think you know, too.”

He whimpered.

“I’m a sinner. I’m an  _ affront  _ to God’s will-”

“No more so than I, Credence.” 

Credence looked up into him, into the face of God, surely, into Charity and Patience -

He sobbed and broke, folding himself in Graves’ warm arms, the beast in his belly crowing in victory as he was squeezed and held.

“Sweet boy, sweet thing…” Graves murmured, rocking him gently. “I’ll teach you, my boy. I’ll teach you. You just need to do something for me, okay? I need help, my boy.”

“Anything.” Anything if you hold me like this. Around them, the bustle of the city parted as though they were holy icons, as though they were martyrs drowned in humanity. Credence watched them rush pass.

“I need you to find a child, Credence. A very special child. Just like you…”

*

Credence is 23 and some change when it all goes to hell. I mean, it was already bad, but. 

It got worse, was all he was saying.

Something in Mister Graves changed. One day he would cradle him, the next he slapped him.

It was still the same, though. He still had to find a child. 

Credence shuddered against the frigid air, against the pitying glances or outright insults. It was okay. He was special. He was magic. One day, Mister Graves would save him.

It was getting harder and harder to believe. 

*

Newt sniffed the air, smelling the electricity of dark magic, like a lightening storm over the city.

“Not a beast. No, no…”

He flipped through his notes on scent, pheromones..  _ Honeyed wine, pastis, cranberries, snow… _

A Veela? In New York?

Surely not the obscurial - they didn’t survive this long. This Veela was on the cusp of adulthood, trying to attract a partner. 

Or it was. The maddening scent had stopped.

Newt couldn’t help fearing that the two were linked, that a magical child had been driven insane by scent, that the Veela was their mother, that they sensed magic and went searching, theories spinning wild and keeping him up at night.

Newt was very, very anxious. 

*

Mister Graves was mad at him. He snarled and paced the alley, making Credence wince and squeeze his eyes shut.

_ Appease. Submit. _

“The child is  _ dying,  _ Credence. We’re running out of time -  _ I’m  _ running out of time. Don’t you understand?”

Credence nodded, choking on tears.

“You’re of no use to me if you can't do this. None at all, Credence. You want to help me, yes?”

“Y-yes, Mister Graves, please…”

“I don’t know if I believe you.” Graves said with a disappointed sigh. Credence keened, at a decibel too high for a human voice. Graves whipped around to the entrance of the alley, startled.

Something in Credence snapped. Graves wasn't even  _ looking  _ at him.

“Mister Graves…” He whimpered, baring his neck. A sigh of magic over his broken skin, and the scent of honeysuckle and  _ sex  _ drifted through the alley.

Graves’ eyes were wild and feral. 

“Credence?”

“Let me help, please…” Credence begged, and he  _ needed  _ to, needed to soothe his troubled brow, needed to sing him to sleep, needed to nest and breed - 

Graves stumbled against him, nose against his neck.

“You…”

Credence’s magic rose to meet him, stroking his face, finding it ill-fitting, digging deeper and deeper - 

_ Let me see.  _ The voice said, pushing back his hair.  _ Let me see you. _

A blonde man with wild eyes. High cheek bones. A scar on the bridge of his nose. Not Mister Graves. 

Credence recoiled in shock. So did Grindelwald.

He snarled and grabbed his arm, and they were gone.

*

So. It went to shit.

Credence stumbled and tried not to puke. Graves had done that before, but -

But that wasn’t Graves.

“Bitch. You - you Veela  _ cunt.” _

Credence pressed himself against the wall, shrinking back and in on himself. His scent turned sharp and afraid, magic crackling. That man named Grindelwald tasted the air, his wand in hand.

Now, Credence couldn’t move. He felt trapped against the wall, rib cage creaking as magic held him fast.

Grindelwald screamed a strange, foreign word, and Credence burned.

Of course magic hurt. It was evil, after all. He didn’t even know why he was surprised. 

“What do we do with you? Mm?” 

Credence would prefer it if he yelled. His low, calm voice unnerved him, slipping into his bones. “Obliviate you? Kill you? You’ve been no use, none at all, you miserable thing. But a  _ Veela…” _

Grindelwald sauntered about the room, Graves’ room, as though it was of little consequence to him. 

“Good money comes from your type, boy. I suppose you are rather  _ fetching.”  _

Mister Graves took him here, once. Gave him a glass of lemonade in the sweltering August heat. It had tasted so good that he had started to cry, and Mister Graves and panicked and given him a wet washcloth to put on his head. 

The imposter collapsed in Graves’ armchair and moaned, rubbing his forehead. 

“This scent is  _ cloying,  _ boy. I don’t suppose I could get you to stop..?”

“Where’s -?” Credence coughed, lilt gone from his voice. “Where is he?”

“I am he.” A wave of his hand, and Mister Graves’ face melted on his features. His kind, handsome face…

It didn’t look right, with that cruel smirk. It looked like a bad caricature, a wax figurine, a Halloween mask.

“Where’s Mister Graves?”

“My boy…” 

“No, no - stop  _ faking!”  _

But Grindelwald was very cocky, and didn’t see the danger. He didn’t hear the roar of thunder in Credence’s ears or feel the swirl of darkness in his belly.

“Sweet boy, he’s gone.” His face twisted in condolence. “All gone.”

And then Credence was, too.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this will be continued! Thank you for all your kind comments :0 hopefully the rest of it aint shit lmao
> 
> squick warnings for mentions of child abuse, a very sexual and inaccurate "medical exam", and everyones brains being a lil foggy due to a pretty veela

Percival Graves had been wrong before.

His mother had been Catholic. A witch, yes, but a deeply pious woman, who believed magic to be proof of His existence. Percival loved his mother, had attended church with her, had prayed with her before dinner.

But he didn’t really believe. He tried, honest, but. They were  _ stories.  _ He couldn’t help it - he needed facts.

And now there was an angel standing before him.

Not a fluffy, robed one, no, one of the angels of old. One that caused mortals

to cower -  _ Do Not Be Afraid _ \- a many eyed  _ beast  _ of magic and power. 

Percival Graves was about to die.

“Ah,” He gasped. “Lord...”

It paused in the doorway, surrounded by light. Clean air and a lovely scent seeped into the squalor of his prison. 

“Mister Graves?”

Oh, what a beautiful voice. Must be time for the nice memories, the glimpses before the death potion. So melodic…

Percival Graves briefly thought of praying, praying for a quick death. But all that came out was - 

“Help me.” 

*

“What the hell did we miss?”

“He was  _ here - right here!” _

Newt just thought they were lucky they’d found him so soon. 

Not lucky. This wasn’t luck. They  _ shouldn’t  _ have found him so soon. Grindelwald didn’t make mistakes. 

Newt squinted at the broken windows, inhaling sharply. 

Cranberries. Honeysuckle.

“Is Mister Graves speaking?”

“The Healers have him - he’s babbling about an angel. You know. He might not be all there after…”

The junior author winced, staring into the man’s prison, caked with blood and shit and  _ fear. _

“An angel. He was saved…” Newt mused. The authors bustled around him, murmuring. Funny thing, that. The claw marks of an obscurus painted the walls.

*

Credence would like to see Mister Graves, thank you very much. He hadn’t come back down to human form in a little while, and he was getting pretty tired. 

He had to find him, first. Sleep could wait. 

He couldn’t see, like this. He could only smell and hear the sharp crackle of electricity. If he focused though, focused  _ really  _ hard, he could feel magic, the same magic that had been so warm and comforting all those weeks ago. 

He ignored the call of the church, the dark, swirling shadows. He ignored the soft murmurs of the witches and wizard settling in for the night, flicking their wands at the window shades.

He focused on Percival Graves and nothing else, melting through the walls of MACUSA, creeping up the ceiling to the medical ward, and -  _ oh _

There he is.

Credence’s eyes crept back, now that he needed to  _ see. _

He was...so small, all lain in white. He was bruised and purple and Credence shifted. He didn’t do that, did he?

In fact - oh, his hair was mussed, too. He was trembling in his sleep, eyes fluttering and chest heaving.

That wouldn’t do at  _ all.  _ Credence had to do  _ something.  _

He floated down as lightly as he could, trying to make himself soft. He spread himself over Mister Graves like a second blanket. He nuzzled into the soft warmth, the fragile skin and bones of the man that saved him.

His breathing evened out, and Percival Graves sighed. 

Now he could sleep.

*

Newt immediately decided he didn’t much care for The Court, The Tribunal, The Capitalized Whatever. 

He had an obscurial to save, and they were holding him back.

“You’ve treated an obscurial before.” 

“Y-yes.” 

“It didn’t make it.”

Newt winced. 

“No.”

“Why shouldn’t we execute it, then? Save some time, tax dollars…”

Newt narrowed his eyes at one of the many shadowy figures above him.

“It did save Percival Graves. Without it, we might have never found him.” Madame President said, head tilted in consideration. 

“Yes,  _ he  _ did. I - I think I can help him. We’ve never seen an obscurial so old-”

“Or so strong-”

“-and,” Newt bit out. “I suspect there are other factors at play, factors that could be causing the manifestation in the first place. Factors I am well-educated in and know how to handle.”

“Mister Scamander, you should leave that for our healers to decide.”

“Do they have experience with Obscurials? With - with Veelas?”

Silence. And then the gentle chime of ornate jewelry as Piquery leaned closer.

“What did you just say?”

“L-let me run some tests. Oversee the examinations.” Newt steeled himself. “I believe that Credence Barebone is not only of magical descent, but of Veela blood as well.”

Piqueury sighed, settling back in her chair. “Very well, Mister Scamander, but only for the sake of Percival Graves. He has gotten rather…” She raised a brow. “...attached.”

“I-I think I can help both of them.”

*

Of course, that all depended on if they could tear him away from Percival’s side.

“Credence.” Newt sighed. The thunderstorm in front of him was quite intimidating. It roiled and thrashed with red lightning, raising up on its haunches until it made a wall between Newt and Percival. It seemed to absorb any light from the windows, casting the room in shadow.

Percival rested well. He had Credence to protect him.

“Credence, no one is going to hurt you. I won't let them.”

Newt’s gaze flickered to the Aurors behind him, their wands trained on Credence’s form. Madame President hissed something, and their wrists dropped.

“Credence, please...can we talk, for a moment?”

The cloud twisted in on itself, a tornado, sweeping up the curtains.

“Is that a no?”

Credence shrieked, shadows extending like talons to cover the walls. 

It was so obvious that Newt might have laughed. 

“Credence, I’m not going to hurt him.” 

The cloud sparked.

“Really, I’m not! We were  _ searching _ for him.”

Credence didn’t look convinced, coiling and uncoiling himself.

“We’re his…friends.” Kind of a lie. “He’s very dear to us, just like he is to you.” Another lie. Oh dear. “We just want to see if he’s alright.” There we go. That works.

Credence seemed to shrink and evaporate as though chastised, slowly sinking to the foot of Graves’ bed.

“That’s it, Credence. You’re doing so very well. Very good.”

Credence startled.

“It’s true. I’m very proud of you.” 

Newt stepped forward slowly, raising a hand towards him.

The storm cracked once, twice, and then rose to meet him, scenting his hand.

“That’s it. Can I come closer?”

The aurors gasped behind him as Credence changed. He was entirely nude - scarred, smoking - his hair misty. He rested his head in Newt’s hand, whimpering.

“Hullo, Credence. May I touch you?”

Credence opened his dark eyes, sizing him up. He nodded.

Newt wrapped his coat around him, cradling him gently. Credence went boneless, snuggling against Newt’s neck and sighing. Newt hummed some nonsense song, rocking him until he fell into a fitful sleep.

“Thank you, Credence. Such a good boy.”

Poor thing hadn’t slept in ages. Likely hadn't eaten, either, judging by the lack of scent.

“I wouldn’t do that, if I were you.” Newt said, softly. The aurors creeping up behind them stopped. “He’ll shift, and attack.”

“He’s dangerous. We need to keep him contained.”

“You’ve seen for yourself, Madame President. He will refuse to leave Mister Graves side, and grow violent. Much like a new veela protecting his mate.” Newt said, pointedly. 

“Sweet Merlin,” Piquery breathed. “If Credence has imprinted on Graves…”

“It would exacerbate the obscurus to threaten either of their safety. Or even relocate either of them.”

“Shit.”

Yeah. That seemed to sum it up.

“Well, Mister Scamander,”  Madame President said, drawing herself up. “I suppose we have no choice but to leave this in your capable hands. Of course, every decision you make from here on in must be qualified to The Council. Understood?”

Newt sighed, rubbing Credence’s back.

“Understood.” 

*

“What’s your name?”

“Percival Graves.”

“Your mother’s name?”

“Aileen.”

“Who's the president?”

“Seraphina Piquery. Give me the potion, Jared.”

She gave him a glance.

“Drink half of it, the other half when you wake up again.”

“Thanks.” Graves huffed, grimacing at the taste of beetroot and oil. 

Jared nodded at him, turning on her heel and closing the curtains. A moment longer, and the door shut.

“You can come out now.” Graves said, a little groggily. Shit, those potions kicked in  _ quick.  _

Credence drifted out from under the bed, crawling up the legs of the bed. He gathered at Graves’ side, strangely cold.

“I’ll keep you safe, my boy.” Percival yawned. “Just...stay with me…”

Credence came back to himself. He reached out carefully, brushing Graves’ hair back from his face.

“S’all okay.” Graves mumbled, eyes drifting shut. “I’ve got you.”

*

After feeding time, Newt reached  _ far  _ back into his bookshelf for his old school journals. After...his  _ stint  _ at Hogwarts, he had to achieve certification through apprenticeship, and helped the groundskeeper and healer staff at Beuxbatons, learning not only about magical beasts, but magical folk as well. 

Newt’s blood still boiled to think of the textbooks descriptions of centaurs, veela, and goblins. I mean, really. Veela still couldn't own their own property, and land dealings with goblins and centaurs weren’t  _ ever  _ respected - 

He was getting distracted.

Notes. Right. 

“We’ll be fine, Philly.” Newt said to the niffler. “Really.”

It wasn’t very convincing.

*

“Resisting the allure won't be a problem. He’s half  _ starved.” _

“It’s a fine line. If a veela is desperate for protection - food, shelter - they’ll let their allure out in full force to attract a mate. I insist you let me go in alone or use a musk.”

It was bizarre to watch Madame President delicately dab hippogriff urine to her neck, with nary a pinched nose. 

“I’ll go in first. If he doesn't want to talk to you, he won't.”

“We can hear you,” Graves called, irritated. “Jared took down the barrier. I’d like you to know I have a headache and am not up to visitors.”

“Too bad, Percival.” Piquery called back, relaxing a touch. “Make yourself decent.”

“Jesus - we’re not  _ canoodling.  _ Christ, Sera.”

“Is he with you?”

“He’s a little cloud right now. You up to visitors, Credence?”

Silence.

“I think that’s a yes. He floated a bit.”

Newt pushed back the curtain, surprised to see Graves sitting up and cognizant.

“You look like shit, Perce.”

“Back at you, Sera.”

“I  _ did _ say I wanted to come in alone.” Newt sighed, digging into his briefcase. “Credence, love, I’ve brought some fruits and veggies. Nothing  _ too  _ hard on your stomach. I’ve heard you haven't been eating.”

“Says I need it more. Feels like he’s stealing.” 

The little cloud dropped, shrinking and hiding under Graves’ hand.

“None of that, now. Come on, my boy.”

“There’s a  _ lady  _ present.” Credence whimpered. Newt jumped. 

“You can talk? In - in this form?”

“If I try very hard. I'm sorry.”

“Nothing to apologize for. I’ve some clothes for you, if you’d like to be human.”

Credence wavered.

“I’m sure you’d like something to eat.” Newt needled. “Come, now. You can change in my case.”

He opened the lock, smiling when Credence zipped inside.

“They’re on a hook to your right. They’ll change to your size, don’t worry.”

Graves shifted, coughing slightly.

“He’s been with you this whole time?”

“Yes.” Graves said, sharply. “He’s - I don’t want him to get hurt.”

“How much do you know about his background?”

Graves narrowed his eyes, casting a glance towards Madame President.

“Thinking of lying, Graves?”

“Thinking of resigning.”

“Save it until after the interrogation. More publicity.”

“Shit,” Graves sighed. “I suppose you think I’m complicit.”

“Not the question.” A clear no. At least Graves had the President on his side. “The Barebone boy, please.”

“I suspected he was of magical blood. A squib. Since Auror Goldstein’s report, I’ve kept an eye on him.”

He paused, letting Piquery’s quill scratch out his answer. 

“Auror Goldstein’s investigation was illegal. Her report means nothing.”

“Call me a sap. With the obscurial running wild, I thought it’d be best to check. That church always had a scent of magic about it.”

“Dark magic.”

“Perfect breeding ground for obscuri.” Graves shrugged. 

Madame President nodded. 

“When did you receive confirmation that he was, indeed, a wizard?”

“When I was rescued.”

“You’re admitting to having prolonged exposure to someone you believed to be a no-maj?”

“A squib.”

“Percival.”

The two glared at each other. Newt was growing more and more uncomfortable, caught in a den with two lions. Graves broke first.

“Yes.” 

“Hm. And when did you learn he was of veela blood?”

_ “...what?” _

Piquery’s gaze was still hard as she turned to Newt. He coughed.

“Well, I - there are still tests to be done, but - his behavior is consistent with that of a young veela, and his scent was at your house.”

“That scent from -?” 

“Oh, that  _ must  _ have been him. We were dealing with no-majs running into the street over that.” Piquery groaned.

“It was the day of his rescue.” Newt pressed.

“Bullshit.”

“You’ve been exposed to his presence and allure - no matter how suppressed - for almost a week. He’s spent three minutes in my suitcase, and you’re going for our jugulars.”

Graves looked pained. “Shit.”

A gentle scraping noise from the case. Newt bent down to open the lid, face to face with an anxious Credence.

“I didn’t - am I okay? I’m sorry -,”

The belt.

Newt smiled, transfiguring it into a set of braces. Credence’s eyes widened, and he rubbed at where they sat on his shoulder.

“T-thank you, sir.”

“Not a worry, Credence. Call me Newt.” 

He helped him out of the case, back to the intense states of Graves and Piquery. Credence immediately crossed to Graves, the two of them relaxing at the presence of the other. He sat beside Graves, who looked incredibly pleased.

“What would you like to eat?”

Credence’s brow furrowed.

“I brought you apples, peaches, some different types of lettuce…”

He was looking overwhelmed. 

“How about - how about some water to start, hm?”

Straight water might hurt his stomach, so Newt crushed a bit of ginger at the bottom for the glass, water flowing from the tip of his wand to fill the glass.

Credence was watching every move, delighted. Newt had to smile.

“Here we go. Drink slow, now.”

Credence raises the glass to his chapped lips, taking a sip - 

He coughed, turning away.

Graves floated the glass with a twirl of his fingers, rubbing his back.

“It’s alright, Credence. You just haven't had food or drink in a while. Or as a corporeal, I guess.”

Graves held the glass this time, an arm around Credence’s shoulder. 

“That’s my boy. You’re okay. I’m right here with you.” 

Newt and Piquery shared a glance. Oh dear.

Credence finished about half of it. Newt’s mother hen instinct told him to worry, but it was good he’d drank that much. 

Now. Where to begin.

“Credence, could I ask you some questions?”

He nodded.

“When did you meet Graves?”

“...April?”

“Do you remember when he stopped acting like himself?”

“When June - when it was ending. He got...mean.”

Graves’ grip tightened on his arm.

“How did you find him?”

Credence took another sip of water, eyes darting to the quill.

“Um...the other Mister Graves took us there. He was really mad at me. I - his magic stopped working when I looked at him.”

“His glamour?”

Credence flushed. 

“He took me to Mister Graves house and said something that made me hurt all over. C-crucified?”

“The cruciatus. I’m sorry, Credence.”

“It’s okay.” He mumbled. Graves was breathing heavily. “It didn’t hurt that bad.”

“How did you find Mister Graves?”

“I got really mad - he said he k-killed you.” 

Another sip of water. 

“And then I woke up and you were gone, so I followed you here to the hospital and now, um. Now I’m here.”

Piquery nodded, sealing the official looking document and opening another page. 

“How much do you know about your magic, Credence?” Newt asked, softly.

“Mister Graves - the other one - said I was special.” Credence’s shoulders rose. “I wanted to believe him.”

“Have you ever done something strange, besides turning into the Obscurial? When you’re mist?”

Credence squirmed.

“You have nothing to be embarrassed of, Credence.” Graves said. 

“S-sometimes I smell weird. And - I get all s-slippery.” Credence said, mortified. 

“Credence,” Newt began, looking at Piquery for approval. “You’re...you might be from a very old bloodline. What’s known as Veela.”

“Might be.” Graves said, darkly. 

“I would need to examine you to be sure.” Newt conceded. 

“A scent, secretions, and the fact that you are quite  _ compromised,  _ Percy? I’m starting be pretty damned sure.”

Credence hunched over at Piquery’s hard tone. 

“Some food, Credence. Would you like some fruit? An apple?” Newt coaxed.

“I-I don’t know.”

“Remember when I gave you grapes? You liked those.” Graves murmured, stroking his shoulder. Credence’s lips twitched, looking at him from under his long lashes.

Piquery took a deep breath.

“Peaches!” Newt cried. “A peach. It’s said - you know, a lot of veela, um - there’s an old story about peach trees and veela. Couples trying to conceive will eat peaches and spend time under peach trees.”

Newt fumbled for one.

“They’re sweet, Credence. And soft.” 

He handed it to Credence, who rubbed at the fuzz, and took a bite.

This was a bad idea. 

Graves nostrils flared as the sweet juices poured down Credence’s chin. Credence trilled a soft little note. 

Newt shoved his nose against his coat collar, feeling the stirs of allure. Graves, however, had no such protection. He leaned in close, wiping away some juice with his thumb and bringing it to his lips.

“My boy…” He growled.

A swish of the curtain. The slam of a door.

Madame President was gone.

“Oh dear.” Newt said, breathless. “Okay. Work on that, there's more fruit here. You can have anything you like.”

Credence trilled his thanks.

“When can I perform your examination, Credence?”

Credence’s bliss evaporated. He swallowed a mouthful of peach.

“W-what would you do?”

“Only what I have to. I’d inspect your stomach, genitalia, and anal cavity.”

Credence’s face  _ burned.  _ Graves was still entranced, cleaning every inch of Credence’s chin of juice. 

“Would it hurt?” Credence whispered.

“No. I would never hurt you, Credence. I’d make it as quick as possible.”

“When does it have to-?”

Newt winced. “Ideally, the sooner the better.”

“We can do it today, if you want.” Credence said, miserably. 

“Best to get it over with quick, I suppose, Gives you less time to worry.” Newt

said, trying to be cheery. Credence gave him a weak smile.

“Would you like to do this privately?”

Credence looked at Graves anxiously.

“It’s up to you, Credence. Not him.”

By means of answer, Credence cuddled up next to Graves. 

“How do we start?”

*

A lot of fucking red tape bullshit, apparently. 

Newt glared at the healers. He knew this protective instinct was partially due to the veela allure, but he also didn’t care.

“Credence wants a private examination. You will  _ not  _ be present.”

“We need to prevent bias, Mister Scamander.” Piquery said, strangely gentle. The allure, too.

“An army of healers watching me prod his genitalia? Best case scenario, Graves curses the lot of you. Worst, we have an obscurial lashing out at us.”

The threat of the obscurus was always an effective one, but Newt still felt the pangs of guilt from referring to Credence that way. 

“Two aurors will accompany you, then, to take a report.”

“Credence has to know them.”

“Bias, Mister Scamander.”

“One.”

Piquery narrowed her eyes. “Fine. They’ll submit their report to my most  _ trusted  _ healers. Is that acceptable?”

No. 

But Newt nodded anyways. He was never one to curse his luck.

*

The arrival of Queenie Goldstein, however, was a welcome surprise.

“Hello Newt! No, I’m not  _ really  _ an auror. But Madame President know you and Graves can’t lie to me. Simple, I just have to write everything down here and show it to the healers.”

“T-thank you, Miss Goldstein.”

She beamed.

“Tina didn’t want to do it because she’s scared of Graves. She says hi, though. Oh, are they in there?”

“Yes, right this way.”

*

It was a bad idea to leave them alone, apparently.

“Oh!” Queenie said, summing it all up.

Graves and Credence were quite happily snogging, soft, wet noises coming from their bed. Well, Credence was just keeping his mouth open, really, as Graves tried to lick him to death. It was oddly...gentle, though - none of the frenzied desperation Newt remembered from the clinic. No, Graves was gentle, stroking the soft skin of Credence’s belly, Credence’s eyes half-lidded and dazed.

Newt cleared his throat. Credence jerked back, skin a bit shiny and eyes sparkling.

Allure. Right.

“Hello, darling!” Queenie said, undeterred. “I’m here to help report you exam, is that okay? No, sweet thing, I don’t have to look, I’ll just sit with you and Mister Graves up there and talk with you. You’re sweet! I l like my hair too.I think we could grow yours out, if we wanted..”

“Queenie is a legilimens, which means she can read your mind.” Newt supplied.

“Oh,” Credence said, fiddling with his bangs. “It’s very nice to meet you, Miss.”

“You too. Tina’s my sister, do you remember her? She says hi.”

Credence glowed. “I say hi too.”

Graves glared at Queenie, and then Newt. 

“This won't take long, I hope.”

“Nice to see you too, Mister Graves. Your thoughts are much louder now. My hearts taken, you don’t have to worry. Besides, I don’t think Credence is interested.”

“If you can't calm yourself I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” Newt said, calmly. “Your pheromones might scare Credence.”

“I’m calm.” Graves ground out.

“This shouldn’t take very long, for your information. Ready, Credence?”

He looked anxious, but nodded. Good kid.

“So brave and sweet.” Queenie cooed, brushing his hair back. Credence flushed, a pleased trill escaping him. “Okay, Newt’s thinking it might be easier if you laid down a bit, honey.”

Working with a legilimens made everything smoother. Queenie had Graves sit up by Credence’s pillow, a steady hand on his chest to soothe him. Queenie undid the bottom most part of his shirt, giving Newt a glance that said he didn’t want to show anymore than he had to.

“Credence, I’m going to undo your trousers, too, and pull them down a little. I’ll exert a slight pressure here. Okay?”

“Uh-huh.” Credence whispered.

Newt let his magic undo the buttons and clasps as he stared to examine Credence’s smooth, soft skin. He pressed down firmly on his lower stomach, then moved to his pubic bone. 

“No uterine development. Square meals and a safe home will do wonders, though. And there’s always potions to help you along.”

“He has no idea what you’re talking about.” Queenie said, brightly. She placed a hand on Credence’s forehead at the slight scent of anxiety. 

“I’m going to examine your genitalia, now. Just fingertips, no pressure or squeezing.”

“Okay.” Queenie said, for him. Credence squeezed his eyes shut.

Credence’s human genitalia was fully developed, but surrounded by scars.

“His mother.” Queenie’s voice was carefully clinical, not pitying or disgusted. Credence whimpered. 

His secondary genitalia was nonexistent. Some veela were born without a vaginal opening, but Newt wasn’t sure if it was nonexistent or just under developed.

Queenie dutifully wrote down his observations, a comforting smile on her face for Credence.

“Thank you, Credence. We’re almost done. Can you roll over on your belly for me?”

Credence whimpered, but nodded. Graves laid down with him, pulling him on top. He kissed his cheek and whispered something. 

“I’ll lower your trousers and examine your anal cavity with a finger. This will check your prostate as well as your slick gland. It won't hurt and we’ll go slow. Is that okay, Credence?”

Credence began to tremble, high sharp notes leaving his throat. 

“He’s scared you’ll think of him badly.” Queenie said.

“You have nothing to be embarrassed about.” Newt said, placing a hand on his thigh. “I just want to make sure you’re healthy, and help you feel better.”

Newt waited for his whimpers to slow to a stop. He felt awful, but it’d be better to get this all done in one.

“Could you put your knees under you -? Just like that, good boy.”

His instincts told him how to present properly, back arched and rear up. His head, however, was down in shame, being cradled by Mister Graves. 

“It’s okay. This won't hurt a bit. If anything -” Newt broke off, blushing. 

“It’ll be okay, sweetie.” Queenie said, rubbing Credence’s shoulder. “Promise. He wants to know if you can remove his trousers entirely. Being tangled up is more embarrassing.”

Credence flushed to the high heavens, but Newt just nodded. A snap of Graves’ fingers, and Credence’s trousers and underclothes were folded neatly on the bed.

“It’ll make it easier. Here we are.”

Newt charmed some lubricant to drip down his fingers, starting by gently rubbing Credence’s clenched opening. Credence jumped.

“Are you okay?”

“J-just cold.”

Newt kept massaging him until the lubricant warmed up, knowing how gentle Credence’s genitalia and connecting tissue must be in his starved, developing state. 

Slowly, Credence’s body opened up to him, the lad’s toes curling as his erection began to form. Newt sighed at the hot, wet feeling. 

“Sign of a healthy young man, especially a veela.” Newt said, cheerily. 

Credence keened, dreadfully embarrassed. Queenie flushed and giggled, reaching over to pet Credence’s hair.

“S’okay, little guy. Mister Graves is right here. He understands.”

Graves was looking faintly murderous - jealous? - as Newt massaged Credence’s insides.

“Credence, I’m just examining your prostate and slick glands. I want to make sure they’re healthy sizes -” and now Newt had to speak louder, over Credence’s  _ ah, ah, ah’s,  _ “- and make sure there’s no pain. Make sense?”

“Uh -  _ hn -!” _

A pearl of pre-ejaculate was beading at the head of Credebce’s cock. Graves’ nostrils flared as he swiped it away with his thumb, tasting it.

“My sweet boy...feels good, hm?”

Credence shrieked and arched - feral, a high call Newt remembered from the wards at Beuxbaton’s.

Newt  _ finally  _ found his slick gland, frowning at its stunted growth. Really, not a surprise. 

“Dehydration.” He supplied, and Queenie nodded as she wrote. 

He rolled it between his fingers, a flash of satisfaction stabbing low in his stomach at the brief flow of slick. Credence’s hips twitched.

“Newt.” Queenie said, a warning.

Newt shook his head to clear it of the allure, flushing. “Sorry.”

If his slick gland was  _ there… _

Credence froze when his fingers neared his prostate. He held himself as taut as a bow, trembling gently.

“Relax, Credence. It’s okay. You feel me inside you?” Newt cooed, free hand stroking his thigh. “Your body is made for this. Needs it. It’s  _ okay…” _

Credence’s hips raised higher as his front collapsed, whimpering against Graves’ collar. 

“He’s right.” Graves said, softly. “Pretty veela. Gorgeous thing.”

Credence’s face twisted as his body ate up the words, hips moving of their own accord to drive Newt to his destination.

Newt’s fingertips rubbed around it as Credence began to howl. He was in desperate need of a good thorough milking, a nice  _ fuck  _ to get his body in order. 

He crooked his fingers and stroked.

Credence’s balls drew up nicely, tightening,  _ tightening,  _ until he sprayed Graves with thick ropes of semen. 

“Dehydrated.” Newt said again, dizzy. He prodded again, mercilessly -

Credence flattened himself against Graves, gasping as he kissed him and stroked him up and down. His neglected cock drooled steadily, balls draining after years of disuse.

Newt let himself slip a  _ little,  _ just a  _ teensy  _ bit in the allure. It’d be good for Credence - self-esteem, his powers, something. He rubbed his hip and bent down to kiss at his testicles, feeling them twitch. Credence purred, muscles relaxing.

Newt nearly jumped out of his skin when Queenie spoke.

“You’ve only done that once, baby?”

Credence nodded.

Graves stifled a moan against Credence’s glistening skin. “Fuck.”

Credence squirmed, hips canting away from Newt’s clever fingers.

“Too much?”

He nodded shyly, coming back to himself. Newt gave him a little grin. 

“You did very well. Perfect, Credence.”

Credence mewled, hips dropping as Newt slipped out of him. His softening cock still drooled, perineum spasming.

“May I take some samples, Credence? Two birds with one stone.”

Credence was too tired to flush, simply nodding as he curled up in Graves’ arms.

Much better this way, straight from the source. Musn’t risk contamination from Graves’ clothes, seeing as the man had ejaculated twice during the course of their meeting.

“Ew.” Queenie said, cheerfully.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhhhhhhhhhh

**Author's Note:**

> who am i 
> 
> one shot?? maybe to be continued???? idk guys


End file.
